A map of a bad life might look like you, scars,
pain so obvious a blind person could see it,
as simple as sliding a hand over bare skin.
Once, I imagined fingering the track marks
on your arms the way only a lover could,
boldness being the only real way to handle
parts of you that you would rather hide from me.
I have my dark pink secrets, too, my less than
perfect limbs screaming symphonies of metal
and bathwater that turned orange from the blood.
They speak to each other, the places where our
bodies have opened and then closed themselves.
They tell each other, you are not alone. Hearts,
be not troubled. The marks on you are shared.

08/03/2004

Author's Note: The prompt was to write a poem about scars. Haven't I covered this before?

Posted on 08/03/2004
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